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Archive for the ‘Pretty Woman’ Category

The San Francisco Chronicle carried an article recently about a noted pick-up artist who will, for a thousand dollars, reveal his techniques on how to pickup women.

The attendees were described generally as handsome, some with money, a few just coming out of relationships, but all lacking the confidence needed in today’s competitive pickup market. Personally, I fail to grasp the concept of a handsome rich guy who lacks confidence.

Be that as it may, I sincerely hope they all gained an appreciation of the latest pick-up techniques and successfully used them. I honestly pray their investment pays dividends in the future in case any of them weren’t immediately successful following the completion of the seminar and lab time in various bars along Geary.

But for those who haven’t scored and for those who couldn’t afford 10 C-Notes, I have some follow-on advice that may help.

First of all, if your target covey is usually found in bars and other watering holes, never make an appearance early in the evening. You may need a little advance reconnaissance to establish an appropriate arrival time, which may take as many as three visits. Eventually, however, you will sense the time when everyone in the bar is drunker than a skunk. The proper timing will reduce or eliminate your competition because most if not all habitués will be in the end stages of inebriation. It just stands to reason that a sober man (you) will have an edge over a mumbling, glazed-eyed, incoherent, gaseous son of a billionaire Nob Hill scion. Moreover, it’s easier to hook up with an inebriated woman than a sober one.

But where’s the challenge? It seems to me that a red-blooded American male would find the conquest of sober women a feat more worthy of his talents. That’s why I am suggesting that all aspiring pickup artists seriously consider expanding the field of operations beyond booze joints. Here is a list of possibilities for you to mull over, along with my observations.

The romance section of bookstores.
Any bookstore will suffice, although this tactic may not work in specialty stores such as one selling used Army technical manuals. There aren’t many women interested in learning how to dissemble and assemble a .50 caliber machine gun except an occasional jilted wife. In these sorts of stores, you will waste too much time waiting. Increase the possibilities of a connection by browsing Borders, for example. As you browse, keep your head buried in an open book as far as you can bury it while at the same time scanning the activity around you through squinted eyes. When a potential target moves into view, slowly approach her. If she notices you and smiles…well, you get the idea.

Organic food markets
Women who buy organic foods are, as a general rule, healthy, intelligent, moderately well-to-do, and of indeterminate age. They are good looking because they follow a daily regimen of skin care and spa workouts, grooming activities that will largely camouflage those pesky signs of aging. The methodology for a pickup in this arena is twofold. First, dress appropriately. Wear a pair of knee length athletic shorts and a logo-ed athletic shirt. These have definite advantages because they speak of athleticism, which women admire in men, and suggest the possession of a college degree, a definite plus in today’s relationship market. Second, fill a shopping cart half full of organic goods selected at random and simply browse the isles. Sooner or later, you’ll catch the eye of a beautiful blonde cougar.

A university research library
These days, institutions of higher learning are heavily populated with women who have returned to school seeking skills appropriate to the21st Century job market. The number of female master’s and doctoral candidates has skyrocketed. And, as anyone who is familiar with the process for acquiring an advanced degree knows, several 40-page research papers as well as a 300-page dissertation are required for the successful completion of the program. That means many women virtually live in a graduate library. You don’t have to be a candidate to approach one of these women. Merely dress in a manner commensurate with today’s young executive and present yourself as a recruiter for a large company. Hand a likely target a business card and engage her in conversation about her skills and future plans. Of course, if you score, your lie may catch up with you sooner rather than later. But, then, that’s one of the hazards of lying to a woman, even an inebriated one.

I believe these three examples of alternate pick up locations will suffice for the time being. For now, let me close with these words of wisdom.

To begin with, consider very seriously the possibility of an entirely new pick up approach currently under study in a research lab in a top secret location near Las Vegas. Here’s how it works.

Dress neatly, walk into your selected arena with a pleasant look on your face, and go about your business.  When a woman catches your eye, smile and merely say, “Hi,” or “Good morning.” If she’s interested, she’ll take it from there. After all, why do you think women are out and around in the middle of the morning? Chances are, they are embarked on the same mission you are on.

Finally, studies have consistently proven that women are the real selectors. They select the man they want to pick them up. Women have said over and over that the juvenile approaches employed by men are actually turn offs. Men, you will improve your chances immeasurably by just being yourself. Women are, after all smarter than men and more perceptive. Give them credit. Save a thousand dollars.

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This may sound heartless, but I have absolutely no sympathy for Tiger Woods or for any of his alleged mistresses. If only half of his suspected sex partners turn out to be real and not a figment of someone’s imagination, then we can safely assume that Tiger rates at the top of the Scummiest People in the History of the World.

Why am I rating Tiger Scum One? After all, he’s just doing what comes naturally or would do it if the opportunity arose. I mean, every one of the women named so far has a superstructure to die for and a bottom structure to boot, not to mention boob structure. Every inch of these women cries out, “Do it to me, baby.” How could any heterosexual male resist? Tiger is only a man.

Well, now, is the entirety of the preceding argument true? Let’s examine, starting with what comes naturally. I think we can all agree that sex is built into the human race. We can argue about whether its purpose is procreation or recreation or a combination of the two, but the act of sexual intercourse is certainly an innate part of the human makeup.

But does it follow that we are biologically programmed to engage in sex 24-hours a day? We might wish for that state of affairs, but in reality, humans need time to take care of other matters. They need to eat, shop, bathe, earn money, get drunker than skunks, and perform a host of other biologically and culturally driven activities.  Moreover, most cultures do not tolerate naked humans fornicating in the street like dogs, although Hollywood comes close.

So, there are constraints on the time and place for fornicating. We are, after all, humans and rank at the apex of the living hierarchy of things with brains. We think; therefore we screw when the time is right and under socially and legally acceptable circumstances. At least, most of us do.

Tiger had the poor judgment to screw the wrong women at the wrong time in the wrong place. He violated one of the more important cultural and moral constraints, the prohibition against sex with a partner other than the one we are legally married to. Although a lot of people violate this principle, more do not than do. Therefore, it is a stretch to maintain that everyone does it.

Okay, we’ve demonstrated that, contrary to one of the most commonly presented and accepted arguments, not everyone does it. What about “To err is human?” That’s pretty much a restatement of the ‘everyone does it” argument. It’s true that “to err is human” is correct because “to err” requires a thinking brain to define err. Lower forms of life lack the essential element of reason necessary to include sex in the category of things classified as errors and thus ripe for atonement and remorse.

But that begs the real question. We all err, but we don’t make that error. Adultery may be on the rise, but, still, only about 24 percent of men and 14 percent of women act out their fantasies. That leaves 76 percent of men and 86 percent of women who don’t. Tiger is thus definitely a member of a minority class when it comes to this particular peccadillo.

If none of the second grade arguments suffice to place Tiger at the top of the World’s Scummiest People Pile, what’s left? Here’s the overlooked reasoning factor.

Tiger allegedly has 14—count ‘em—14 mistresses and a wife. This is greed of the first order. Even in a capitalist economic system where greed is good, this is absolute overkill. Tiger is monopolizing the market. Until he agrees to share his supply of women, he will remain at the top of the scum heap.

In other words, Tiger ranks as the World’s Scumiest Human not for his sexual escapades but for his damned greed.

p.s. I apologize for suggesting that women are commodities on the open market. But somehow, Tiger seems to believe they are.

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Open Salon recently put out a call for the sexiest man living. That’s patently unfair to heterosexual males like me because we don’t look at other men as sexy. Speaking only for myself, I view men in general as dorks. There’s no hotness, no sexiness to a dork.

Sarah Palin, on the other hand, is no dork. She is sexy as all get out and has more balls than most men I know. She’s strong and independent, with nerve above that of Nancy Pelosi, my runner-up selection in case a sex-tape of Sarah and Levi Johnston pops up.

Sarah epitomizes your American ideal of maleness. She’s an outdoorsman par excellence, a hunter, a fisherman, a camper, ready at a moment’s notice to fight a salmon until it tires and then slap it skin, bones, eyes, and entrails over an open-fire or eat it raw.

She definitely dominates the landscape around her, exuding charisma by the bucketful. Beside her, John McCain is a wizened, shriveled shadow of a real man. If I could bottle and sell her essence, I’d be a millionaire in short order.

And talk about testosterone, it shines from her forehead like a glinting diamond, catching the eye and holding it until she disappears from view.

As far as outward physical attributes go, she has an amazing skull. With her prognathous jaw, heavy brow, deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, and ruby red lips, she signals her genetic superiority to all potential mates.

Put all of the above together with a pair of legs to die for, and you have Sarah Palin as My Sexiest Man Living.

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In ABC’s new Wednesday evening Fall offering, “Cougar Town,” Courteney Cox plays a recently-divorced forty-something who decides to hit the jungle trail. Almost before we can say “sex” she latches onto a handsome stud and hauls him off to her pad.

That’s it. That’s the whole story encapsulated in the 30-minute pilot. Will this show last? Only if the audience likes the odd mix of sex between young and old with no apparent purpose other than watching Courteney under an undulating sheet with a new cookie-cutter stud every week

Don’t get me wrong. Forty-five year old Courteney is built like the proverbial outhouse. Either that or she had a hell of a body double and a pixel mechanic capable of placing Courteney’s head atop the body of the body double.

On balance, however, and after a little logical reflection, I’m willing to give Courteney the benefit of the doubt when it comes to the sterling condition of her aging bod. On a scale of one to ten, she deserves an eight in my playbook.

The problem in the pilot wasn’t her physical shape but her overacting. The word seems an apt summarization of her gesturing and other nonverbal histrionics, which might bring her stardom if silent films are resurrected.

Pending that unlikely occurrence, however, she might profit from observing real cougars in action. As a civic-minded critic, I’m offering a link to the hottest cougar hangouts in San Francisco.

And if Courteney needs a guide, my services are available free of charge. In fact, I can be cougar-ed myself. I’m in the Yellow Pages under Cougar Treks.

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We parked on Valencia just around the corner from 24th Street. The four of us walked across 24th for a bite of lunch in a corner café, which was almost empty at that time of the afternoon. The waitress was a nice young girl who seated us promptly and then left us to review the menu of exotic goodies ala San Francisco.

I opted for the 24 hour breakfast…two eggs, scrambled, crispy bacon, like, snap, sourdough toast, and coffee. It was good, the best the city had to offer.

My companions ordered…what?…I don’t remember. But they all raved about the food and complimented the waitress who beamed.

Following our meal, my buddy and I stepped outside while the women fought each other over the check. I leaned against the door jamb and watched a female police officer walk across the street toward us and get in an SFPD patrol car. She eyed me up and down and I smiled at her.

Across the street, we spotted a place called Holey Bagel. It turned out to be a bagel shop. We reversed our course and walked back toward Valencia. On the other side of the intersection, we spotted a guy unloading beer and booze from a truck. We decided to check it out. Turns out the guy was stocking the Dubliner in preparation for the evening’s usual festivities.

By now, the girls had settled the bill and left a chintzy tip. We decided to head for the Marin Headlands and after that, finish our day with a drive across the San Rafael-Richmond Bridge.

My buddy unlocked the car doors and like the gentlemen we are, we opened the doors for the women and saw them safely ensconced before we took our own seats.

Just then, I spotted a woman walking toward us. She was tall and had a haughty air about her. But she was beautiful. San Francisco beautiful. Not one of your stringy haired bottle blondes, but a dark-haired beauty with long legs carrying her confidently past us and onto 24th Street. I had visions of the Maltese Falcon strapped to one of those legs.

Before I closed the car door, I did a double take. My head swiveled around in an effort to check out her…um…aspects. She was perfectly proportioned all around. I followed her with my eyes until she disappeared and I thought about jumping out and asking her if she could direct us to the zoo or something.

By now, my buddy had noticed my body facing forward and my head to the rear. He began to chuckle and didn’t let up for the balance of our tour.

A couple of weeks have passed and I still can’t get 24th Street out of my mind. I intend to return as soon as I can and spend more time there.

Those were the best damned scrambled eggs I’ve ever tasted.

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She lay quietly, breathing slowly in my and her daughter’s arms, her heart beating faintly and her breath coming at longer and longer intervals.

Then, the sounds and feel of her heart and lungs began to fade slowly much the way sound diminishes when we gradually turn down the volume on a radio.

Hardly without notice, her life as we understand it ceased.

I’m ashamed of myself because I failed to understand that she was dying and I waited too long to hold her and talk to her and hum some of her favorite songs.

I’m having a hard time imagining life without her.

I hope I have the strength to write her story.

Life is too uncertain at the moment.

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Or is it?

You’ll pardon me, I hope, if I descend into the murky depths of illicit affairs, which I take in this instance to mean sexual relations outside of marriage.

I’m thinking right now of South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford and his Argentine inamorata. Reports from Argentina have referred to her as a 43-year old professional woman of uncommon beauty. Sanford is 49, so the age range is in line with general expectations.

The element in this romance that strikes me as interesting is the appearance of the two. Given that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, we are, nonetheless, prone to accept reports that the woman is pretty darned good looking.

Sanford, on the other hand, altghough tall and with a commanding presence by virtue of that alone, doesn’t have the face of a Hollywood idol. He has close-set eyes that some may describe as beady. And a long, narrow nose reminiscent of the noses of some species of lower primates. Plus, he seems to have a perpetual five o’clock shadow.

As your typical generic Anglo-Saxon male, I am thus naturally prone to ask, “What does she see in that guy?”

In fact, when I look at Sanford’s face, I am reminded of an old Mickey Gilley honky-tonk song, “The Girls All Get Prettier at Closing Time.”

The song clearly suggests that a woman’s attractiveness increases in proportion with the amount of alcohol consumed by the male. I hold that the rule also applies to women. The more booze a woman consumes, the handsomer a generic will appear to be.

I am not suggesting that Sanford’s inamorata has to get loaded to engage in an affair with him. But Sanford surely must possess some sort of characteristic that transforms him into a desirable male, a characteristic that acts on the female brain much in the manner of booze, a characteristic that casts a soft glow around his entire being.

In my judgement, power is that characteristic. As pudgy Henry Kissinger once said, “Power is an aphrodisiac.” This once-Secretary of State ought to know. He used to squire some of Hollywood’s most beautiful women around town.

And now, generic Sanford is the beneficiary of the essence of Kissinger’s pithy homily. If only the rest of us plain folks were as fortunate, how sweet it would be.

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